Without Love
by CaptainYellow
Summary: His throat thickens with sobs and he swallows against them. He can't deal with his ‒ how did the mind healer call it? ‒ 'trauma' right now. Not tonight, not when he is sleep deprived. Bed sharing and erotic dreams trope mash-up suggested by deadwoodpecker on Tumblr... with a little twist of my own.


Harry apparates into the London flat he shares with Ron. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them wide in an effort to stay awake. It's been a long week.

After endless investigations, Kingsley has tracked the remaining Death Eaters in Norway. They finally arrested Dolohov and Rookwood in Tromso last night and sent them promptly to Azkaban. Dolohov was trying to rebuild a cult of Voldemort followers, so just for that, Harry thinks the sleepless nights were worth it.

_Still._

He can't remember when was the last time he showered, and his long hair and unshaven cheeks would give Mrs Weasley a heart attack. But Harry is too tired to think about baths and haircuts right now; all he wants is to sprawl onto his bed and sleep for hours.

Except, he realises blearily, there's an owl in his living room.

Staring back at him with a pair of deep set eyes, the owl is waiting to be freed from the rolled scroll strapped to his leg with a piece of red string.

Harry swears between clenched teeth. "Please, don't be from the Ministry."

He detaches the letter and unraveled it, sighing in relief when he recognises Hermione's handwriting.

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope you're doing well and the Auror life is everything you hoped it would be._

There's a splotch of ink there, almost as if she has paused and debated on how to word her next sentence.

_How is Ron? Mrs Weasley and George told me not to worry about him, but I can't help it. Something about his letters seem off._

Harry's eyes browse over the living room. The empty bottles of Firewhisky and the half-eaten take away boxes tell him Ron is home… or at least he was.

_I know I'm not being rational right now, but sometimes I want to leave everything behind and go live in London with Ron and you. What was I thinking, coming back to Hogwarts without my two best friends?_

_I miss you terribly. Everything here reminds me of you, of Ron, of Ginny. Remember when we used to sit by the fireplace after a long day of school and just talk about nothing in particular for hours? I miss these days._

_Please write to me back._

_Hermione._

Harry looks at the letter for a long moment. His throat thickens with sobs and he swallows against them. He can't deal with his ‒ how did the mind healer call it? ‒ 'trauma' right now. Not tonight, not when he is sleep deprived.

Tossing the letter on the coffee table, Harry heads to his room and collapses on his bed.

* * *

"Harry." Her voice rumbles low in his ears.

He lets out a groan, refusing to open his eyes. His mind is fuzzy; he feels as though he's coming out of water after a midnight swim.

"Harry." She leans her warm, naked body into his and it takes him a moment to realise that he is also naked.

_How the hell did that happen?_

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes and the sight before him almost takes his breath away. Ginny is straddling his hips, seated directly on the most sensitive part of his anatomy.

She's staring down at him, her brown eyes flecked with gold. Her vivid red hair looks like a halo in the moonlight. The contrast against her pale face is striking, yet stunning.

He wants to touch her, to caress her flat belly, to cup her breasts and taste her nipples. But would she allow him to? He isn't worthy.

Ginny smiles down at him. He watches in a lusty daze as she slowly runs her hands over his bare chest, back and forth, moving a bit lower with each stroke, until her fingers are brushing the hair just below his navel. His breathing grows ragged.

"Relax," she whispers, then her hands close over his cock.

His eyes roll up in his head. He is anything but relaxed. It's a sweet torture. His senses are ravaged, disconnected, filled with the most irresistible floral fragrance.

Ginny's hands slid up and down his length in long strokes. "Harry."

"Please," he begs. "Don't stop_._"

Her mouth curves into a wicked smile. She tightens her hold on his cock and strokes harder. A moan escapes his mouth. His hips take a life of their own, thrusting upward in her grip, but it isn't enough. He wants ‒ no, he _needs _more.

As if hearing his thoughts, Ginny presses her wetness on his cock and starts rocking against him. He grips her buttocks. Heat rushes through him. He feels a new kind of dizziness.

Ginny increases her pace. He knows he is close, but he holds back his orgasm. He wants to engrave the exhilaration of sharing this intimate moment with Ginny Weasley in his mind.

But then she leans down and brushes her lips on his neck. "Come for me, Harry."

Waves of raw pleasure travel through him all the way to the base of his spine. He arches his back, spilling his seed over her fingers, and cries out her name for long minutes until his orgasm dies down.

Ginny curls against him and nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck. Panting, he wraps both arms around her and brings her closer, until their bodies are almost melting together.

"Merlin," he whispers hoarsely when he can finally make his voice work. "That was… wow!"

He can feel her smile against his shoulder. "Glad you liked it."

He rubs his nose in her hair, unabashedly breathing in her honeyed floral scent. "I love you."

Ginny pushes up on her elbow, her eyes wide in surprise. "That's the first time you say it to me."

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, his eyes travelling over her face. He used to do that a lot when he was in sixth year; they would sit near the Great Lake and he would absently play with her hair for long moments. If only he had known back then that these blissful days would be the happiest of his life, he would have spent all his waking hours telling her just how much he loved her.

But he never did.

He feels a tightness in his chest.

"Kiss me," he whispers, bringing her face closer. "Please?"

A sad smile tugs at Ginny's lips. She closes her eyes and leans in, but before her lips can meet his, they hear the _crack_ of an apparition.

He recognises the old witch at once; her wild hair, her crooked teeth, her sickly thin frame. Bellatrix Lestrange is standing at the foot of his bed, wand in hand.

"I killed the weasel! I killed the weasel!" she chants. Then she points her wand at Ginny. "Avada Kedavra!"

There's a flash of blinding green light and Ginny falls limply on the floor.

* * *

Harry wakes up with a gasp. His body is covered in icy sweat and his heart is hammering inside his chest like it belongs to a wild animal on the run.

_Calm down_, he tells himself. Except it's _her_ voice he's hearing and it makes everything a thousand times worse.

With a quick flick of his wand, he casts a Silencing charm on his door.

_Now breathe._ Harry grips his pillow and starts to hyperventilate. His eyes flood with tears, but he squeezes them shut. He will _not_ cry.

It's been six months since Ginny died. Six months and it still hurts like the Cruciatus curse. When will the pain go away?

Harry grips his pillow harder and focuses on _not_ crying.

The answer to his question is probably _never_.


End file.
